The Tweets of Brandon Cummerbund, Pt 4

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? No, a compost heap, Botley, unless thou get the shrubbery cut back.

Coriander Fitzshertbert called to borrow gramophone. Baboon in cellar. I have quick toe count: still all there. Recital today. Must gargle.

Baboon squatting for monkey rights. Have called cousin Bertie who has blunderbuss. Hailing outside. More taxis than usual. Breakfast: kidney

Cook still sulking over quiche rejection. Muffins like rock cakes. Rock cakes like meteorites. Mrs C using reinforced false teeth. Temp: icy

Coriander Fitzshertbert called to borrow gramophone. Baboon in cellar. I have quick toe count: still all there. Recital today. Must gargle.

Baboon squatting for monkey rights. Have called cousin Bertie who has blunderbuss. Hailing outside. More taxis than usual. Breakfast: kidney

Bertie has adopted baboon, and lent me blunderbuss. Botley suddenly showing respect. Ukulele session later. Mrs C has earplugs in. Hippityho

By Jingo! Have been selected for Bloomsbury Quoits second team. Must buy new jodphurs and tub of wax for grip. Supper: braised haddock tails

Taramasalata. Salsa. Gentlemen’s Relish. Hummous. Tzatziki. Tabasco. HP. Piccalilli. Some of the dips and sauces I have tried with toast …

Hobbledehoy attempts to steal Mrs C’s handkerchief. I see him off with a thwack of me cane. Suspect Fagin’s mob. Breakfast: waffle, sausage

Valet gone to whittling workshop. Cook bottling plums. Mongoose scuttling about. Butler buttling. Boot boy sprattling, he says. He’s fibbing

Botley planning severe hackage of garden tomorrow. May not see him for days. Champagne on ice. Supreme gargle this morning. Tea: lapsang.

Gad, Botley roped in gang of labourers to chainsaw the foliage. Now can see the wood for the trees. Rumours of lost tribe in garden shed.

Tasty dish with squash and risotto proffered by cook this evening. Mongoose sulking again over paw-paw allowance. Chocolate: Green&Blacks70%

Friday looming large and hairy, although could be cook in bad light. Where is cheese? Do chickens snore? What is Botley? Mysteries, all

Chum Archipelago de Cuella chuffed about Olympics in Rio. May take a steamer over. Brazil’s footballers should be made to play 3-legged mind

The oranges of my aunt are in the basket. Here is Father. The monkeys have eaten all the cheese. Why am I reading a French textbook? Bouf!

Glad to have travelled up to one of our foremost metropoli by steam chariot. Enjoyed a book charting history of gramophone record. Chachacha

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? No, a compost heap, Botley, unless thou get the shrubbery cut back. Poetic justice. Dinner in Pinner

Pass the marmalade, Terence. Chum Monty the Monk suffering from tonsuritis. Valet has limp. Mongoose looks shifty. See http://bit.ly/4rHZFv

Stiff neck from too much craning. Boot boy afternoon off for football. Mongoose toenail clipping day. Going out. May be some time. Toodlepip

Mongoose clipped. Police were called after neighbours complained. Mrs C just wanders round gibbering. No change there. Breakfast: quail eggs

Mushrooms on toast. Cheese on toast. Scrambled eggs on toast. Bacon. Sausage. Devilled kidneys. Potato cakes. Just wanted others to salivate

Toasting fork missing. Butler looking shifty. Always looks shifty. Born shifty. Botley looks like hamster. Marshmallows located. Plot afoot!

Tallulah Boomdeay calling round to borrow lemon. Sparrows have been pecking the milk. Must clear ‘em out of fridge. Breakfast: zabaglioni

The Boll Weevil (aka next door’s cat) is on back lawn. Botley poised with hoe. Mongoose behind shrubbery. Self in easy chair with binoculars

RSPCA called after Boll Weevil hooha. Mongoose unrepentant. Boot boy has drawn rough sketch. Next door making threats. Weather: sunny spells

Mashie niblick playing up today. Jiggerypokery on the links. Caddie reprimanded. Snifter at 9th. Crofter at 12th. Afters at 19th. Tiddlypom

Mrs C and I exchanged lobsters, as custom on nuptials anniversary. Cook promising fatted calf. Mongoose worried. Breakfast: mango souffle

Awoken by belching mongoose. Not recommended. Birds tweeting. Cook puffing. Valet brushing lapels. Boot boy polishing. Mrs C snoring. Ho hum

Stoke Poges. Cleethorpes. Upper Witherington. Nadgers Bottom. Twistlefield. All places Mrs C & self have holidayed. None we’d revisit. Humph

Top suppliers: Tosh & Piffle, solicitors and commissioners for oaths; Spatchcock and Batley, fishmongers; Twaddle, bakers. Ying tong ipo

Couldn’t find toaster this morning. Turns out it’s his day off. Pah!

Electrickery chap came yesterday and replaced things, fiddled with bits and bobs and charged a King’s ransom. Still, all now hunky dory

Envisaging some foraging next week. Unsure where to take Mrs C since rest of household absconding. Only Splinge is coming. Suggestions?

Caught Botley eating Gentleman’s Relish. Severely reprimanded. Also reminded he is not a gentleman. Mrs C says I am harsh. Refuse to kowtow.

Tintinabulists bonging merrily today. Mongoose ponging, must get Botley to hose down. Must ask vicar if he’s going to Rome. Cook needs pasta 8:41 AM Oct 25th from web

Vicar not going to Rome, so cook sent out for pasta. Boot boy on day’s training at St Pancras. Breakfast: grilled kipper. Weather: hopeful

Cook alarmed to discover new trend in eating places: http://bit.ly/2gwXaG Boot boy went and ate half his weight in beans. Mongoose in trauma

Off to market today in search of mothballs for mongoose (don’t ask). Am taking pith helmet and stout stick to fend off ne’er do wells. O yes

Marscapone and he won’t know where he’s going. Survived market and mongoose now happily crunching mothballs (don’t ask). Breakfast: anchovy

Algernon Parp-Stratley gone to India to find himself. Wasn’t aware he’d gone missing. Will leave a gin sling in the window. Tweed: Harris

Attending nuptials tomorrow. Best bib and tucker. Here comes the bride. Mrs C refuses to wear hat. Ridiculous. Shall sing with gusto, dammit

Brolly? Top hat? Overcoat? Sou’wester? Spats? Breeches? Plus fours? Fedora? Cane? Smoking jacket? Waistcoat? All good if playing Scrabble

Gad, mad 11-tweets at once woman is at it again. Considering not feeding mongoose for a week then sending him to her in a parcel. Tiddly pom

Cook ill. Rest of household holding its breath. Botley staying in shed. Bootboy in cupboard under stairs. Mongoose in box. Breakfast: toast

Mrs C applying Venezuelan back massage. Requires Wellies, a cricket bat and three litres of treacle. It could get nasty. But does the trick.

Back still a bit dicky. Suspect Mrs C used wrong sort of treacle. Mongoose will not come within 10 feet. Botley spotted with fly spray. Pah!

Back improving, front so-so, sides splendid. Boot boy practicing polishing. Valet ironing. Botley hoeing. Mongoose yodelling. Eggs: coddled

Shall have to call tradesman again. Sprocket is broken on thingummy. Boot boy looks guilty. Mongoose looks innocent. Looks can be deceiving

Plimpley Brothers coming to tinker with the Aga. Aga Khan coming to tinkle on the Steinway. Mongoose ticked off for tinkling on cook. Ahem.

Botley to creosote the trellis. Expect mayhem to ensue. Cook in search of maraschino cherries. Invented cereal that cleans teeth: Flossties

Trimming my portmanteau today. Spats sent to be ironed. Collar studs being defettled. Shoelaces waxed. Hats starched. Cologne: pungent

Butler sent to get umbrellas repaired. Excessive downpour damaged spokes. (Spokes is our umbrella carrier, now receiving treatment). Hum.

Reliquary. Tonsorial. Tintinabulists. Mulligatawney. Agamemnon. Paganini. Plangent. Interlocutary. Wallamaloo. Just trying out new teeth.

Spike Milligan’s Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall

Chichester Festival Theatre: Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall by Spike Milligan

How does he DO that? Milligan (Sholto Morgan) admires the ability of Edgington (Dominic Gerrard) to conjure up a cuppa in the most unlikely places

An interestingly mixed crowd of older and younger Goons fans filled much of the Festival Theatre on Thursday night for Bristol Old Vic’s sparky production of Spike Milligan’s classic war memoir.

Adapted for the stage by Ben Power and Tim Carroll, it was a strong mix of knockabout bawdy barrack room humour, Milligan’s surreal yet poignant story-telling and some classy jazz numbers from the Forties.

A talented cast, led by Sholto Morgan as Milligan, did an excellent job in a show that mixed a mock ENSA show for the troops, direct excerpts from the book, and vignettes that captured superbly the gallows humour, humanity and tragic sacrifice of wartime.

As co-adapter Ben Power writes in his programme notes, the show’s spontaneity and looseness owes as much to the ragged nature of Spike’s surreal writing as the way the action has been put together, and mirrors the freeform nature of the jazz Spike loved to play as lead trumpeter.

Giving sterling support to Sholto, as the boys of Battery D, were Dominic Gerrard (Edgington), William Findley (Goldsmith), David Morley Hale (Kidgell) and Matthew Devereux (MC), and they delivered some superb instrumental and vocal performances, handling piano, drums, saxophone, double bass, guitar and trumpet between them.

A fun night that will have prompted many an audience member to dig out those old paperbacks again, and revel in the tortured genius of Milliganism.

Ends Saturday night (24 October) before travelling to Watford, Liverpool and Nottingham. More at www.spikeswar.com

Review: Oli Brown Band, Worthing Assembly Hall

Oli Brown Band – Worthing Assembly Hall

It’s an irony that in a genre where artists get better the older they are, blues newcomer Oli Brown is turning heads while still in his teens.

Oli’s power-packed three piece – the Oli Brown Band – delivered a powerful set at Worthing Assembly Hall last night, although it was really the wrong kind of venue for this stage in his career.

Oli Brown Band on stage in Worthing

A crowd of less than 150, spread thinly around the auditorium at tables, mustered plenty of enthusiasm, but what you really wanted was a smaller, intimate club atmosphere with sweat running down the walls.

Much of material the centred around the band’s highly acclaimed 2008 debut album Open Road, with a few blues classics such as Every Day I Have The Blues and Black Betty thrown in for good measure.

Inevitably it was Oli’s blend of powerful, mature vocals and guitar heroics that dominated. Tall, thin and with a shock of shoulder-length black hair, he was a charismatic focal point, strolling around the stage playing with the casual insouciance of a veteran. Astonishing, considering he’s only been playing the instrument for seven years.

Style-wise, there were shades of Stevie Ray Vaughan in his fluid, melodic runs, and other blues masters such as BB King and Buddy Guy (the band delivered a blistering version of his Steppin’ Out, Steppin’ In), as he cranked up the tone and the drama. At times on the slower numbers his jazz-inflected tones even touched on the likes of Joe Pass and a guitar version of Oscar Peterson.

Freddie Hollis on 6-string bass was a rock solid rhythm unit with quality drummer Simon Dring, and the pair added welcome harmony vocal back-up at times, as well as having their own solo slot to show off their virtuosity.

Standouts included album opener Psycho, the rocking title track Open Road and an impassioned Stone Cold (Roxanne) which had Oli yelling his vocal refrain sans mic to the back of the hall.

When during the encore the young guitarist sauntered out among the crowd to solo at length and up close, it was just a reminder of how blues can connect at gut level. The future’s bright for this power trio. They’re great now – give them time (and they’ve got plenty) and their potential is frightening …

Further dates lined up in the south east:

4 Dec – The West Coast Live, Margate
5 – Wingspan Club, Crawley
9 – Plaza Suite, Sevenoaks
10 – The Maltings, Farnham
15 – The Brook, Southampton
16 – The Jazz Cafe, London

More at www.oliselectricblues.co.uk

Rusty spade

It’s National Poetry Day
And I have not, so far, written anything poetic.

However
Maybe I have said something of a poetic nature
to someone.

Thinking about it, I’d consider that unlikely.

It’s possible there might have been
an action
a glance
or a thought
that might be considered
in some way lyrical.

To be honest, it’s not been that poetic a day.

But it’s National Poetry Day,
so I’m writing this.

Which may not be much compensation
for today’s poetic vacuum.

But it’s the best I can come up with.

Some days words are your paint
your instrument
and the love of the universe coiled in sound.

Other days, they’re a heavy, slightly rusty spade
that doesn’t really do the job.

This was one of those days.
Hey-ho.

8 October 2009

Quality street

God save the Queen
and quad bikes
and quadrilateral triangles
and quadratic equations
and quadrophonic hifi
and quince
and quills
and quelling rebellions
and quaffing ale
and quenching thirst
and quail
and quibbling
and Quality Street
and querrulousness
and quacking
and Quavers
and quangos
and quorn
and quickness
and quivering
and quotable quotes
and quorums
and quips
and queries
and Quakers
and quoits

and even Kwikfit fitters
(despite the spelling)
because there’s something
about ‘kwa …’
that drives me
quazy

17 September 2009

Stop w(h)ining …

It’s communion, Jim, but not as we know it
The bread is still there but the wine has now gone
Official instructions are rather hotchpotch
The wine’s for the vicar, and we get to watch

While we worship the Lord with hymns loud and anthemic
The bishops are worried we’re spreading pandemic
We don’t all want swine flu, it’s a pig of a bug
So don’t you dare kiss in the Peace, or go hug
Handshakes are dangerous, so make do with a shrug

Never mind that the Bibles are passed hand to hand
Why the chairs haven’t been swabbed, I don’t understand
And then there’s the newssheets and door handles too
All viable ways to share in the flu

If it gets too much worse they may make us stay home
And watch Songs of Praise till we’re blue in the face
So let’s give them one big liturgical groan
We’ve had it with law so let’s hear it for grace

Next we’ll have Britain’s Got Swine Flu
with Cat Deeley
Maybe it’s just a plot to stop church
getting too touchy feely

August 2009

There is a first time for everything

There is a first time for everything
Everything has a first time
Is time a first – for everything?
Time: first there is everything
Everything first, for there is time
A time is for everything, first
First time – there is everything
Everything time. Is there a first?

This poem has been sentenced
To death.

17 September 2009

Untitled

Tony Blair
Tony Benn
Tony Booth

Toni Basil
Tony Bennett
Tony Jacklin

Toe knee
Knee toe
Rigatoni

Woolly jumper – overtones
Halfwits – semitones
Feargal Sharkey – Undertones

Old school – sepia tones
Old tech – Binatone
Old amp – tone dial

Steady drone – monotone
Reedy drone – Casiotone

Tony Hancock
Tinny tannoy makes Kiri Ti Kanawa sound like Tiny Tim

This has been a Tone poem

17 September 2009

Anish Kapoor – Royal Academy of Arts

Svayambh – red wax monster shaped by the building

Royal Academy of Arts: Anish Kapoor (Exhibition 26 September – 11 December, 10am-6pm, Fridays 9.30pm)

Wandering around the press preview of this major solo exhibition by 1991 Turner Prize winner Anish Kapoor, I couldn’t help but be struck by the sheer sense of fun this influential sculptor encapsulates in his work.

Rather than try to tease out ‘meaning’ from each piece – a mix of new work and previously unseen items – I just found myself delighting in the physical appeal of each one, and the way they made me think about them.

First up is the monumental Hive (2009), built in a shipyard in Holland using Corten steel. It impacts you immediately as you stare into its hidden depths, and then walk round what for all the world seems like an alien submarine, left to rust on a distant, abandoned planet.

Greyman Cries etc - serious playdo, this

Gallery two yields the enigmatically titled Greyman Cries, Shaman Dies, Billowing Smoke, Beauty Evoked (2008-9), consisting of dozens of pallets piled high with cement sculptures generated via a computer-controlled three-dimensional printer. The result is a mix of almost fossilised geological strata plus dinosaur poo put through a mincer. You want to grab a handful of it – it looks fantastic fun created by grown-ups let loose with a vat of modelling clay.

The writhing marble monster Slug (2009) seems almost alive, contrasting a sinewy intestinal feel with a towering female organ in an unlikely metallic red.

Non-object (wall) - concave reflections

There’s a fascinating gallery of ‘non-objects‘ full of concave mirrors throwing back distorted and often upside down reflections. Shiny chrome always brings out the magpie in all of us, and Kapoor maybe asks us how we appear to others compared to how we see ourselves with this cavalcade of end of the pier distortions.

A gallery of Pigment works flings deeply coloured geometric shapes at us, tempered with a powder sprayed almost soft texture, and including the wonderful When I am Pregnant (1992), a swelling bump that pops out seamlessly from the white walls, playing tricks with the light.

Yellow - you might just dive in and disappear

Piece de resistance when it comes to impact for me was the awesome Yellow (1999) – a cavernous splash of yellow that dives deep into a wall and leaves us grasping for a means to take it in. The curve of its shape makes it impossible to tell how deep it goes, and the result is something you just have to stare at and enjoy.

Heart of the exhibition is the powerful Svayambh (2007), taking up five galleries at the RA. A massive block of red wax chugs slowly along tracks, oozing through the Academy’s white and gilt doorways, leaving a sticky residue behind. The title comes from a Sanskrit word meaning ’self-generated’. It is bizarre, fascinating and mystifying all at the same time.

And the same red wax becomes a weapon in Shooting into the Corner (2008-9), as cannon fires 20lb plugs of the material at 50mph through another doorway and against a wall. Some 30 tons will be fired through the exhibition. Described by RA chiefs as a “psycho drama”, there is a real tension as we wait for the plug to be fired, supervised by a black boiler-suited assistant. There is something visceral and disturbing that we share in here, and the experience is strangely engrossing.

For those who don’t ‘get’ modern art and sculpture, Kapoor’s work may not make much sense. But maybe that’s because it shouldn’t be approached as a puzzle which needs to be solved, rather than created works that evoke a response or cause us to think.

You may respond or think differently to me. But you should go – it’s exciting stuff.

Tickets are £12, bookable at www.royalacademy.org.uk or on 0844 209 1919

Welcome – and a brief explanation

Hi there – wherever you’ve come from, a very warm welcome to words hanging out to dry. Have a nose around, read a few things, comment if you like and be sure to pop in whenever you’re passing.

You’ll find all manner of bits and bobs here, which I’ll try to organise in an accessible way – poems (children’s and more grown up stuff), commenty stuff, comedy material and possibly the odd song. Most likely very odd, actually. Hope you enjoy them.

Scuttly

I could be small and scuttly
I could be big and hairy
I’ve got legs enough for two
And some people find me scary

I’m very good at spinning webs
And raindrops hang on every thread
They’re sticky and they catch my lunch
I eat them up with lots of crunch

You’ll sometimes see me in the bath
Or in a corner of the ceiling
Don’t worry if you cross my path
Don’t swat me ‘cos you’ll hurt my feelings

I know I dash across the ground
It’s just the way I get around
A bit like a horse without it’s rider
I’m just your friendly, neighbourhood … spider

Danger: wet paint

There’s a trumpet call on Speakers’ Corner
It’s not what you think so I’d better warn ya
It’s a joke and a song and a dance or two
Cos the Creator’s creators are getting through
While people have ears they’re not always listening
The people have fears – they can see what’s missing
Too much preaching from the head not the heart
Political manoevering’s a new kind of art
But the underground is bringing change
Imagination revolution’s going to rearrange
The powers that be will be the powers that were
As the poets and the comics start to cause a stir
See, there’s a God of rhythm and a gospel of grace
There’s a street level dance with a human face
It’s compassion and it’s action and it’s love that hurts
It’s the prodigals forgiven as they’re cleaning up the dirt
It’s laughter and it’s danger and it’s colour and it’s shape
It’s a triumphal procession but without the ticker tape
It’s the artists and the sculptors and the singers and the mimes
It’s the dna of Jesus painting signs for the times
It’s the dna of Jesus painting signs for the times

August 2008

Love … and things like that

Love part 1

If I learn Esperanto, or Welsh, or Serbo-Croat and can jabber fluently until the cows come home -
wherever they’ve been -
or can talk backwards or in hieroglyphics, or even in genuine angelic lingo,
if I haven’t got love, I might as well sound like the National Kazoo Orchestra played through a blender.
Or a Seventies prog rock band at the wrong speed.

If I can be the fount of all wisdom,
covering everything from knowing the whereabouts of the car keys at all times to accurately predicting the stock exchange,
the 2.15 at Kempton
and whether the chemists round the corner opens late tonight,
but don’t have a loving bone in my body,
I am worth diddlysquat.

Even if I am
more brainy than Stephen Fry,
more hunky than George Clooney and
more peaceful and centred than a barrow full of Dalai Lamas.

Even if I give my entire month’s salary in exchange for a copy of The Big Issue, hand over my house to asylum-seekers
and give up my body for medical research -
while I’m still using it -
if it’s not done with love,
I am no more than a pimple on the backside of humanity.

Love hangs around, and doesn’t mind waiting for the postman.
Or your other half in the bathroom.
Love does good stuff for people without needing to be noticed.
Or kissed.
Love doesn’t sit there skulking because next door’s built an extension.
Or gone to Mauritius.
It’s not into showing off the new car, or saying ‘come round for a meal’ when really you just want to show off number one son’s trophies.
It doesn’t preen.
It doesn’t count among its hobbies road rage,
swearing at the milkman or badmouthing the in-laws.
It’s not bothered with looking after number one.
Love doesn’t fly off the handle at the least excuse, or go looking for fights.
It doesn’t dig up grudges, find axes to grind
or keep an extensive logbook of the times you got it wrong and don’t you forget it.

Love doesn’t side with the bad guys
or count lies as an endearing characteristic of modern day relationships.
It’s more keen on keeping the good things safe than Yale, Chubb and Churchill Insurance.

Love is extremely big on giving you the benefit of the doubt,
taking you at your word
And making you feel you’re better than you actually are.
Love saves small slivers of hope
And builds them into gigantic, monumental mountains of excitement about tomorrow.

Even when life suggests you have as much chance of living long and prospering as a whelk has of winning the Nobel Prize,
love … never … gives … up.

February 2008 – with thanks to 1 Corinthians 13

Ban all new product, I can’t keep up

Right, there are now officially too many entertainment items released for public consumption. I am a member of the public, I can no longer consume any more and so I’m now announcing this, officially.

I propose that for the next year, we basically ban any new albums, books, films, musicals, TV programmes and websites. The people concerned can have a holiday, or catch up on a little reading. You know, all those books you bought because you thought you’d get round to reading them. And you didn’t.

The rest of us can also do a little catching up – on all the CDs we barely listen to, the films we always meant to get around to watching, the programmes we never watched etc

Bands can practise their old stuff a little more, comedians can dig out jokes they haven’t told for a while and we can all stop clogging the world up with more and more product. That’s my view and I’ll be sticking to it for the next 12 months.

Unless I have a fantastic idea for a novel.

Or a poem. Or song.

Or joke.

OK, it was a bad idea after all …

Pens on chains in banks

I have a thing about pens on chains in banks.

I’m going into a bank to pay in some money, or take out some money, or harangue them in some way for doing stupid things with my money and then charging me more money to tell me about the stupid things they’re doing with my money.

I’m not going in to steal a pen.

If I was going to steal a pen I’m likely to go to a stationery store that sells decent pens, not blotchy, dribbling, scratchy useless ones like they have in banks. Why would I want to steal one of those? You’d steal it and then throw it away.

But no, banks clearly have a problem with people stealing their pens, so they chain them up. Like criminals. Perhaps it’s where bad pens go to serve their time. “‘Ere at Bic we ‘ave created ze perfect ballpoint, and you come along wiz your ink dribbles and blotches zat go right against all our principles. We are sending you far away from here and your freedom will be curtailed. You will be chained to a desk and made to serve 15 years at HSBC. And let zat be a lesson to you.”

Or maybe it’s a kind of reverse psychology designed to deter actual bank robbers:

“Think you can crack our vaults, eh? Think you can hold up our cashiers and make your way out with bundles of swag, EH? You’ve already mentally  bought your villa on the Costa Del Sol, a half-share in a Division 2 football club and the complete back catalogue of Michael Buble, haven’t you? Well think again, matey – WE’VE EVEN GOT THE PENS CHAINED UP!!

“And if even those pathetic excuses for writing implements are chained up, how do you think we’ll have protected the money?! With a bicycle lock? With a couple of elastic bands, in a shoebox, under the manager’s desk?!! Dream on, sucker, we have the latest hi-tech, infra-red, GPS, dna-fused, heat-sensitive, plonker detectors this side of Gatwick Airport and they’re all trained on YOU!! You’re on more cameras than Britney Spears. Spend a bit longer here and your half-hearted wide boy capering will be a series on UK Living and out on DVD by Christmas!!!”

But if you’re a student and open a new account by the end of the month, we’ll give you a free download from iTunes and our easy guide to getting into debt, mainly through exhorbitant bank charges.

Just don’t take our pens, alright?

Trellis McBungee

Trellis McBungee is my name
Extreme snorts is my game
I listen to all the world can give
And snort harder than a man can live
If the energy from my snorts were caught
Why all the science teachers who ever taught
Would not be able to explain the power
That would make the toughest army man cower
With a fizz and a bang and an awesome sha-booooooom
My snort power would blow them clean out of the room
They ask me the secret and I simply laugh
They can’t even imagine – they don’t know the half
A Trellis McBungee atomic strength snort
Would blow flat all the armies that have ever fought
And a Trellis McBungee snort doesn’t come cheap
No.  The price would make the world’s richest man weep.
And I don’t sell my secret, quite reasonably
Because my snort is quite simply what makes me me
My snort is unique, no-one can repeat it
And no-one, whatever they do, can defeat it
Since Trellis McBungee snort’s such a hit
It is rather hard for me to admit
That sometimes I wish I could smile and not snort
As no-one can get near me, and I’m quite short
So people don’t always know I’m around
And as I exist quite close to the ground
I find it quite hard to have lots of friends
As my snorts tend to drive them right round the bend
(s)

Body bits

I’m glad there’s a button on my tummy
And lids on both my eyes
I’m happy there are caps upon each knee
And they’re both about the same size

I’m delighted with my nostrils
There’s one each side of my nose
And I’m chuffed both my arms have elbows
(For my funny bones, I suppose)

I’m tickled that my eyes have lashes
And each of my teeth have a gum
I’m well pleased both feet have an ankle
And my hips (at the back) have a bum

Both of my ears boast a lobe, you know
And my ribs are kept in a cage
My knuckles help keep my fingers on
It’s probably down to my age

Pale

This is a surrealist piece inspired by the work of Edward Lear, Salvador Dali and Spike Milligan

The wind has painted my tractor
Several shades of tree
The walrus in my garage
Has just turned 43
A walnut phoned me up to say
The crisps are tasting stale
And still my auntie says to me:
“My, you’re looking pale …”

The badgers living on our roof
Have stolen all the scones
A bison with a dodgy leg
Just scored for MK Dons
The blancmange in our cupboard
Is shaped just like a whale
No wonder my auntie says to me:
“My, you’re looking pale …”

I thought that everyone would find
A volcano in their fridge
And be woken by the vultures
Every night, as they play bridge
Me, I blame the Vimto-covered
Hippo, built to scale
It’s his fault my auntie says to me:
“My, you’re looking pale …”

That’s why we go to football

I am drenched in sweat. My throat is sore and my voice has a weird hoarseness to it. I cannot quite think straight, but I am extremely happy.

You see I’ve just been to one of those magical games that come along once in a blue moon for most ordinary football supporters. When you’re a Brighton fan, you have to take your excitement where you can find it.

And boy, did we find it tonight. Let me set the scene: Brighton’s home form this season has been less than stellar while visitors Manchester City are now officially the richest club in the world, having spent and spent and spent, and having just stuffed Portsmouth 6-0 without really trying.

We have just lost 1-0 at home to a Walsall team reduced to nine men after half an hour. We are, on paper, going to get totally stuffed. Humiliated. Embarrassed by footballing geniuses.

Except it doesn’t quite work out like that. For starters, the ground – a converted athletics track with the atmosphere of a dull post office queue – is full. And the locals are determined to enjoy themselves, whatever the score. It’s noisy, the banter is flying and the script is being written for a classic Cup upset.

At times, we look like we might be able to play football. City stroke the ball around but do a lot of falling over in expensive boots. The Seagulls players toil and tackle, sweat and bellow and the nouveau riche are unsettled.

Suddenly, a great move – Thomson bursts through, the crowd rise as one man to their feet ready to explode but his shot cracks back off a post and misses Loft following in. Was that our moment?

City spend an awful lot of time with the ball, but either contrive to finish poorly or forget to shoot in the first place. 0-0 at the interval, so far so good.

A few more near things in the second half, and then City take the lead via a deflected shot. Come on! We’re not rolling over yet, and lo and behold David has pinged Goliath where it hurts and we have a scrambled equaliser minutes from the end.

Extra time. The big boys are getting nervous as their junior rivals push and harry, deliver last ditch tackles and generally make a nuisance of themselves. Suddenly, heaven opens – loan winger Joe Ansinya finishes a classy passing move, and we’re 2-1 up. The ground is rocking, we haven’t heard singing like it since the play-off semi-final years back against Swindon, and the impossible could happen.

Rats.

A long ball from the City defence misses everyone except Stephen Ireland who finishes clinically. 2-2 and there’s frantic City pressure for the winner. A succession of corners are somehow repelled and the ref blows for the end of extra time.

Penalties. That TV drama on a plate. Heroes and villains. Except we’ve already won a moral victory by even getting this far. We can’t lose.

And we don’t. It goes to 3-3 with immaculate spot kicks until a nervy Michael Ball steps up for City, Kuipers picks the right way and parries his less than perfect penalty.

Matt Richards can score to take us through. Everyone is holding their breath fit to burst. The ball ripples the net, the place goes bonkers, we’re jumping up and down and before you know it half the crowd is on the pitch, and it’s like we’ve won the Cup itself.

It’s only a game of course. But it’s a glorious game where golden tinged moments like these make up for all the frustration, boredom and despair that often colours the bulk of the fan’s experience.

And it’s wonderful. And totally inexplicable too.

I guess you had to be there.

September 24 2008 11.56pm

Did I miss something?

It is hard to underestimate the effect that TV replays have upon us.

I’ve lost count of the sporting events I’ve been to where my attention has drifted for a moment and I’ve missed something exciting,
only to wait for a millisecond, for the action replay,
before realising, with a chuckle that this is life,
not television.

I must pay attention more carefully.

I can always Listen Again to radio programmes.

Or Watch Again what I missed on TV.

But those bits of life that pass me by can’t be rewound and replayed, or summoned from the ether for my proper consideration.

Those words you said that you wished you could get back.

The action you should have taken, but which instead left an awkward absence by not being done.

Those moments of golden illumination where you were looking the other way
Or daydreaming
Or blithely unaware.

Mind you, I may have lost count because of my memory, or my maths.

And there is the kind of tension that exists in the gaps
where we are convinced that a better party is happening somewhere just out of reach
And other lives somehow seem sharper, more tangible
and more fulfilling.

It’s probably an illusion
brought on by too much daydreaming.

Seconddreaming may be a better use of time
if a bit briefer

But we’re less likely to miss the things that matter.
Provided we recognise them.

Maybe it’s that life repeats on you
when you haven’t digested it properly

Lancing

Do you like Lancing?
I’m not sure I’ve ever lanced …
I do quite like dancing
Though whether I have really danced
Remains a matter of opinion.

Alight to lighten the journey

Writing a poem on the train from Hove
My poetical eye begins to rove
I’m looking for something to witter about
But it’s quiet on the train so I’d better not shout
The announcements are always calm and polite
And it makes me smile when they say “Please alight …”
It’s not a word we normally use, but it’s good that it has a special place
Where sliding doors slide and carriages race
And the back gardens all become a blur
And it somehow feels right, I’m sure you’ll concur
That a word stays usable
When we’re all so confusable
They could say ‘get out’, ‘get off’ or ’step down’
But why can’t a railway announcer go to town
You go for it, girl, with me it’s all right
There’s nothing I’d rather do than alight.

Short

I wrote a little poem
It was really short
In fact it was so small
That I thought I really ought
To call it a po.

One man went to mow

One man went to mow, went to mow a meadow. One man and his dog, went to mow a meadow.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d query the value of the dog. It would tend to scurry about, getting in the way and not generally being much use in the mowing department. Unless, of course, it was a trained mower and was able to give the man a break from time to time. It could, at a stretch, be a highly skilled mower and thus render the man’s presence pretty irrelevant.

Maybe the dog had poor eyesight and so needed the man to take him to the meadow, get him sorted with the mower and turn him round at each end. Sort of a guide dog, in reverse.

Then again, maybe he was just there because of the song. But you don’t get too many popular songs or nursery rhymes with an entirely gratuitous animal planted in it, just to make it scan, but of no relevance to the action. Hickory Dickory Dock, for instance, has the mouse in a fairly central role. Running UP the clock before, of course, running DOWN again following the striking of the hour. Hardly peripheral.

Three Blind Mice, again, features the rodents in a strongly central role – admittedly sharing some of the limelight with the farmer’s wife – but clearly not stuck in on a whim as merely hapless victims of the knife-wielding maniac with a disturbing hobby of collecting mouse tails.

Mind you, you are tempted to wonder exactly why the mice are blind, and what this adds to the scenario. “Three blind mice – see how they run”. With extreme care, one would presume, with a fair bit of bonking straight into bits of furniture. And was the farmer’s wife performing her tail removal in a carefully planned operation, rodents in hand, or wildly slashing at them as they scampered past? In which case a meat cleaver might have achieved more, you’d have thought.

One man went to mow, went to mow a meadow. One man and his mouse, went to mow a meadow. Now there’s a idea to conjure with.

10 matters of key national importance

At times I worry that some of the things I write about border on the trivial. At other times I worry that I may have the gift of understatement. Most of the time, I don’t worry much at all.

But occasionally I have to set myself writing tasks.

Here are some possible subjects I may be exploring over the coming days. Or ignoring entirely.

1 Cheese and its place in the cosmos
2 Cocktail sticks: a social history
3 Why kangeroos cannot pass wind (it’s true – I saw it on QI the other day)
4 Can you get a loan from a bottle bank?
5 Are cardboard clothes just an impossible dream?
6 Where exactly is Stoke Poges?
7 Kazoos and the jazz dynamic
8 Why carpets signal the end of civilisation as we know it
9 Nectar of the gods, and the stuff the gods rejected
10 A celebration of celery

Feel free to comment if you have pearls of wisdom on these vital issues. Or just poorly considered rubbish. Comment is free, after all.

The cocktail stick: an appreciation

What can one make of the simple cocktail stick?

A sliver of wood, with a sharp point at each end, it can, surely, only have been invented by someone interested in making it into the Guinness Book of Records for the longest splinter on record.

Rumour has it, though, that it first made its appearance in New York around the time cocktails were invented: possible the roaring Twenties, or the wheezing Thirties, maybe even earlier, in the tubercular Teenies. Famously used for the ubiquitous maraschino cherry, it was seen as something to twirl coquettishly while twinkling over your Harvey Wallbanger, or whatever.

Now more commonly used for the humble pickled onion, its star has somehow waned, one suspects. The pickled onion has plenty to commend it – notably the sharp vinegar tang, and the first crunch when you bite into it – but it’s hardly as sophisticated as an exotic cocktail.

Other environments in which the cocktail stick has been spotted include:

1 Stuck in little sausages, or pineapple and cheese at retro Seventies parties
2 Stuck in Oranges, with small sweets skewered upon them, at church Christingle services around Christmas time
3 Er, that’s about it

Possible future uses could include:

1 Providing a cut-price bed of nails for hard-up circus performers
2 A cheap, recession-friendly mini Jack Straws game
3 As toothpicks for the risk-takers among us

A&E departments around the world probably all have tales of casualties admitted with a part or whole cocktail stick jiggling merrily in the internals somewhere, and they’re certainly sharp enough to qualify as javelins for any passing leprechauns.

More recent times have of course brought the plastic cocktail stick – multi-coloured but just as sharp.
If you have any printable experiences to relate involving cocktail sticks – do let me know.

The distilled wisdom of Brandon Cummerbund

Recently discovered in a dusty trunk filled with pith helmets, stout walking sticks and a large quantity of Gentlemen’s Relish were the accumulated advice and sayings of Victorian wit, man about town and amateur taxidermist Brandon Cummerbund … A man ahead of his time. Or behind the elephants, with a spade.

Always check your greenhouse for baboons. If you find one, let it out carefully as they have a thing about compost

Tumble-drying is best done by a machine

It is possible to get over-excited about cheese

Toast has its uses in hand to hand combat

A walrus does not make the best of pets. Better to start with something smaller.

Warning: grass cuttings can become unstable if allowed to accumulate.

A mint in your pocket is worth two in your glove compartment.

Best never to secure anything, except for a temporary measure, with an elastic band

Pencil drumsticks are at their most effective if not sharpened to a point

The reviving qualities of cucumber should not be underestimated

What goes up must come down, unless you are a tennis ball adjacent to a garage roof

Lino may struggle to be stylish, but its ability to be easily cleaned is admirable

Chim-chimerney, chim-chimerney, chim-chim-cheroo … particularly on Thursdays

Any travelling funfair close to a dental surgery should beware the use of candy floss

Country ways: I used to think stubble-burning was a kind of extreme sport version of shaving

Some days I mourn the decreasing use of … tongs

Extremely dangerous, but great to listen to – that’s Salmonella Fitzgerald

The cracked pitcher goes longest to the well. And never gets picked in the baseball team.

If it’s possible to be non-plussed, why isn’t it possible to be plussed? Why is a boxer invincible, yet an effete gentleman unable to be vincible?

Is the opposite of a mangrove a womancopse?

One mongoose is enough. Two will argue and three can cause explosions.

Some days I mourn the decreasing use of … pac-a-macs

Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. At least, that’s what I tell the milkman.

Tonic water isn’t always. However, the bubbles have some entertainment value.

Angels prefer not to dance on the pointy end of a pin.

Cushions can be hugged, but rarely reciprocate.

Mildew is as mildew does.

Much can be achieved with six pomegranates, a ladle and a small volume of 19th Century French poetry

Some days I mourn the decreasing use of … ink wells

If fell walking is a description, rather than a pursuit, stick to taxis.

A study of knots has much to commend it.

Never allow hedgehogs free rein in your lilo factory.

Cod liver oil has many benefits, but do fish take human pancreas juice? One would doubt it.

Magnificent beard, vicar, but why did you dye it orange?

Never discuss secrets near a tree. Whorls have ears.

O sole mio. But rarely in Grimsby.

A pocket knife has many uses, however a gentleman foregoes fish gutting in the presence of a lady.

Mulligatawney soup should be compulsory during Lent.

Tremulous, she was, quite tremulous. But with a right hook like a pheasant.

Perambulation is the mother-in-law of bus strikes. Note it well.

Allow a badger to sharpen your kitchen knives, and a pigeon will soil your birdbath.

‘Once I was afraid, I was petrified … ‘ – the cry of the Jurassic forest

Pecan nuts squirrel. Good for the pecan.

Take a bowl of meat stock and add a quart of strawberry jelly, two buttons and bookmark. Simmer until next door’s cat starts yowling, then pour down the nearest drain. Be grateful you didn’t have to eat it.

I have yet to see a convincing argument why quoits should not be an Olympic sport

The art of conversation should be a subject taught for school examinations

Sometimes only a mallet will do

Finding time and space for breathing is a necessary nuisance

Ironmongery can delight the soul. A specially curved fork is wonder to behold.

I was beside myself with rage when they diagnosed schizophrenia.

Too much thinking can exasperate the brain. Too little may congeal it.

A little anchovy paste spread on the nose will certainly excite comment.

Many a man has been denied greatness for want of a good pair of shoes.

Some days, I mourn the decreasing use of … spats

A tiepin can be a mirror to a man’s soul

There’s a place for us, a time and space for us. Walthamstow, 4.37pm, Tuesdays.

Selflessness is an attractive virtue, but don’t ask anyone to spell it.

She was to hats what pigs are to laundry mangles

Anger may conceal a generous heart. But not usually.

A stout umbrella is a friend in many a dire circumstance.

Beware the toffee hammer. It may be small, but foolish is the man who underestimates it.

Too much genetic modification may yet give us the brussel trout.

Approach the sun with similar caution to strawberry jelly – it is only safe when set.

Many a pig with an itch has become pork scratchings.

Delirium tremens. Plus support. £6 on the door.

Go placidly amidst the stuff and things.

Brut force – an army powered by after-shave.

Need mystic tooth cleaning? Find a transcendental hygienist.

Whispering grass? Speak up a bit, man.

I was Monty’s Carlo.

Matron – someone’s disturbing the peaches.

A moustache is all about trimming.

I mourn the decreasing use of … blotting paper

A twig may, in extreme circumstances, be used for cleaning teeth. Never one’s own, of course.

School daze

First piece written for the Revival Media podcast – October 08. I’ll post an mp3 once it’s available ….

School days, they say, are the best days of your life.

Which isn’t a cheering thought when the dog’s eaten your homework, the school bully has discovered your middle name is Sebastopol and you’ve just encountered quadratic equations.

And anyway, what do THEY know? THEY might have gone to fantastic schools and then embarked on a career as a traffic warden, or a ballpoint pen tester, or a call centre operative flogging acrylic sweater debobblers. In which case, school might well have been the best it got.

But some of us have found the education system a bit of mixed bag – some fantastic teachers, others with the inspirational qualities of a cold bowl of mushroom soup. Brilliant memories of larking around with your friends, discovering the wonders of the world you’re growing up in and seeing if it really is possible to eat three cream  crackers without a drink of water.

Then again there were always those scary incidents where you couldn’t see your essay because of the amount of red pen on it, the exam papers where you reached the end with a sigh of relief only to discover two more questions on the back and 30 seconds to answer them in, and those occasions when  the facts you thought you’d learned had simply gone on a brief tour of your brain before discovering an exit somewhere and escaping to freedom.

The good thing is that however rubbish or brilliant your school days were, you actually never stop learning. In such an amazing world, there’s always something new to discover … even if it’s the 101 different ways it’s possible to lose your TV remote …

Unexpected

The laughter of a child
Sunlight filtered through leafy branches
A wave’s deep breath and crash on shingle
The first sip of a pint
The crescendo to the chorus
Kicking through fallen leaves
The strategically placed banana skin
A smooth pebble on the beach
A dew-tinselled spider’s web at dawn
The hug, freely given
Sky – the world’s biggest free art show
A dog’s unconditional welcome
The anticipation of a journey
Colouring in a picture
Forgiveness in the teeth of heartbreak
Friendship renewed
Stories spun and jokes shared
Falling into water
Falling into bed
The silly dance in the kitchen
Tears for no good reason
Yearning for something more
Travelling hopefully

The glory of God appears
in unexpected places.

October 08

30,000 feet

30,000 feet above land
My vision is clouded
By cloud
And a blinding sun
Coasting on a lake of blue

The sound of engines
Ploughs through the silence
The in-flight movie has finished
The food has gone
Yet the hours draw out before arrival

Caught between time zones
We travel in limbo
Neither here nor there
Suspended in tin
At 30,000 feet

There are quieter places to be
But the journey is always about
The distance between
Where you are and
Where you will end up

9 minutes until the next feature begins
If features are measured by screens
Provided by NorthWest Airlines

30,000 feet above land
My vision is clouded
By cloud
And a blinding sun
Coasting on a lake of blue

Sleep is not appropriate
As it would mean missing part of the journey
Through unconsciousness

Rest should come when the journeying has stopped
When you are at arrival’s point
Rather than en-route

That’s where I am now.
But I may change my mind.
Journeys are like that.

Brighton Theatre Royal: The Wizard of Oz

Brighton Theatre Royal: The Wizard of Oz

When you decide to put on a stage version of one of cinema’s classic

Dorothy and chums belt out another Oz classic

children’s films, you face at least one key dilemma– to be faithful to the original, or to reinterpret it.

Thankfully, Theatre Royal Productions and Family First Entertainment took the sensible route and stuck to the original – and as a result have produced a truly excellent Christmas show that families will love.

Let’s face it, you want all the elements to be right – a cute and appealing Dorothy, a scary and villainous Wicked Witch of the West, comedy and companionship from the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Lion, a sparkly good witch, lots of singing and dancing Munchkins, great sets and the classic songs given a good airing.

This show ticks absolutely every box.

Rising musical star Aimie Atkinson has the Kansas accent off pat, a stunning voice and a great stage presence, and has stellar support in Tim Flavin (Scarecrow), who also directs and choreographs the show; Jon Clairmonte (Tin Man) and Gareth Marks (Lion), who camps his role up just the right side of pastiche.

It’s great to see Bruce Montague (Professor Marvel/Wizard) still in great form – many of the audience will remember him as Leonard from Butterflies, and from many other TV series.

Rae Baker (Wicked Witch/Miss Gultch) and Julia J Nagle (Aunt Em/Glinda) play their parts with relish and style, good knockabout stuff comes from Tony Jackson (Uncle Henry/Oz Guard) and there is high quality ensemble work from the Munchkins/Citizens of Oz/Winkies (Alex Taylor, Kirsty Lee Turner, Katie Cobb, Aideen Donaghue, Cameron Ball and Ian Goss).

The creative sets work very well – the tornado was handled superbly – and the costumes were also excellent, so credit to Evolution Productions for those.

If you’re looking for a great night of family entertainment, you won’t want to miss this one – it’s a truly wizard show.

The Wizard of Oz runs until Sunday 4 January
Box office: 08700 606 650
www.theambassadors.com/theatreroyal

Strange fish

This has been written for the Ice Prince arts festival – marking one year since Worthing’s wood invasion, due to the discharged cargo out at sea

You can’t see
You can’t see the beach for the wood
For the wood has become forest
Again
Planks stretched aloft
Like the yearning arms of the crowd at the 100 Club
In 76, wanting to catch the salt drops of rebellion
Before they become the dried sweat of the ordinary
Pale pine fingers crossed
In hope of rescue
‘MAN THE LIFEBOATS
WOOD OVERBOARD’
Cargo gone
Benches pressed
Decking bobbing
Shelving diving
And suddenly arriving
An angular invasion force
A splinter group that doesn’t mind being split
Or savaged with steel teeth. Or screwed. Or nailed.
Elvis would have liked our beach.
It once had a wooden heart.

10 tips on surviving the recession

1 Do not go out. People will try to sell you things. You will be tempted to spend money. Enough said.
2 Chew all your food twice as much as you normally would. So will extract every last drop of nutrition from it. And you will need to eat less. And you will use more energy chewing, which will mean you will have a very fit jaw. Which may Be A Good Thing. And your body will have to work less hard to digest it all, thereby ensuring your insides wear out less quickly. Or something.
3 Remember – soup is a meal! It is hot and can have things to chew floating in it. Of course, if you can make your own this will be much better than buying the stuff in tins, cartons or packets. Except the Covent Garden stuff, which is brilliant. If expensive. You can, of course, add water to make it go further. But it will be more waterey. Which may, or may not, Be A Good Thing.
4 Enjoy your garden, if you have one. If you don’t, enjoy someone else’s garden. They won’t mind, provided you don’t camp in it. Garden plants are largely recession proof, as no-one turns the sun and rain off if you don’t pay your bills.
5 Use credit cards for scraping the ice off your windscreen in the morning. And for nothing else.
6 Listen to the radio more. There is great stuff on it, it is largely free, and it will mean you have less time to go out buying expensive coffees, clothes you don’t need and holidays you can’t afford.
7 Spend more time with friends and family, preferably at their houses so it’s their heating, coffee, biscuits and stuff you’re using.
8 Breathe deeply and appreciate the fact you’re alive, you have a house to live in and something to eat. Compared to most of the planet, you’re rolling in it. Especially if you’re a hippo in a muddy pond.
9 Use your local library. It’s a lovely place filled with lovely people and they let you use things for free, mostly. Well, the books anyway. And sometimes they have free poetry events, or storytelling for the kids. And there are reference books and newspapers and it’s normally warm. And there are only a few people smelling of booze and mumbling. One of which may be you.
10 Remember, all recessions finish eventually. So hang on in there – at some point you’ll be able to look back on it. Which is a comfort. And may Be A Good Thing.

(final serious suggestions – use www.moneysavingexpert.com – and make what little dosh you do have go further!)

The shelf stackers

This is another piece to mark the first anniversary of The Ice Prince’s cargo of timber washed up on Worthing’s beaches …

I must go down to the sea again
To the roaring sea and the tide
I’ve got 2000 tons of wood down there
I wonder if it’s dried?
It’s got to be someone’s decking
It’s bound to be someone’s shelf
Have you seen the twilight trekking
Loading roofracks by stealth?
My dream conserv-a-tory
Is stacked up on the shingle
The DIY man’s glory
The thought just makes him tingle
With some sawing and some planing
With his drill and Black & Decker
Some awesome light construction
Hardly make him a villainous wrecker
While his joints won’t be mortice and tenon
More Superglue and bodge
And his angles may look a bit wonky
More tumbledown shed than park lodge
It’ll be fashioned from flotsam and jetsam
The stuff that the tide just brought in
Like a boon from above, a woodworker’s offering of love
Strewn from the god of Homebases’s bin

You should have seen their cars go
Weighed down with the loot
Half a dozen splintered planks
Protruding from the boot
It may not be strictly legal
But many a blind eye was turned
And many’s a glass has been raised to the Prince
As some flaming good firewood’s been burned.
Nice one, Icey.

Alien plant horror musical – bloomin’ marvellous

Brighton Theatre Royal – Little Shop of Horrors

While not by any means a sell-out, it was a hugely enthusiastic crowd that welcomed Little Shop of Horrors to the Theatre Royal on Monday.

The tongue-in-cheek musical based on Roger Corman’s classic 1959 B-movie

Audrey and Seymour in action

certainly delivered a high quality evening’s entertainment, with a stack of class performances from its talented cast.

A lovely period set got everyone in the mood, as hobos and street girls established the vibe for Skid Row, and the superbly voiced Ronettes (Nadia Di Mambro, Cathryn Davis and Donna Hines) kicked proceedings off.

The trio’s powerful voices, superb harmonies and street-wise persona were one of the highlights of the evening.

Former Doctor Who Sylvester McCoy put in a delightful character performance as Mushnik, failing owner of the Skid Row flower shop, and while his voice was often no more than adequate, he more than made up for it with his timing and stagecraft.

Clare Buckfield, star of Dancing on Ice and best known for her role in 2Point4 Children, was excellent as blonde bombshell Audrey, flower shop worker and abused girlfriend of sadistic dentist Orin Scrivello (Alex Ferns). She had a strong singing voice and brought real presence to the role.

Damian Humbley did a great job as Seymour, the downtrodden shop lad who discovers an alien plant he christens Audrey II as a tribute to the object of his affections. My only quibble with him was that he didn’t really look geeky enough to play the Seymour part, but I guess no-one’s likely to match the Rick Moranis geek look.

Alex Ferns was superb as the pain-loving dentist Orin Scrivello – although it’s such a peach of a part you wonder who wouldn’t relish playing it – and also gets the chance to deliver some quick-change character parts later in the piece as the plant’s fame grows as fast as its hunger.

Audrey II was voiced powerfully by Clive Rowe – fantastic singing voice – and his pupeteers Andy Heath, Brian Herring and Iestyn Evans deserve special mention as the alient plant grows to take over the stage in monstrous style.

Fantastic music from the band, and a lovely revolving set added to the show and left the audience clapping along with the theme song at the end.

This is a superb production that deserves packed audiences – don’t miss it!

Go HERE for tickets

Lent 2009: day 1

Decided to give up biscuits and cake for Lent.

A crazy idea most likely undeliverable but well meant

Almost succumbed to a plain chocolate digestive

Resisted and thought of England

Updates may be found here, if I’m not too bitter;

On the book of Face, or maybe on Twitter

Lent Days 2 & 3

I am still on the wagon

Cake and biscuit-wise

The knack I have discovered

Is not to feast the eyes

Upon the sweet and sticky stuff

To fill up with the fruit, and leave quick

In a huff.

Lent – still on course … just

It is a debateable point

Whether the croissant is bread or cake

I maintain its bready consistency allows it to fall the side of the line

I would hope for

Its Gallic charm says ‘Eat me’

And it’s the yeast I can do

As for the biscuit, it has not sullied my lips

Although chocolate, I confess, has.

For medicinal purposes.

Passengers

This was written on one of many train journeys to London recently, as twilight and dusk segued into night …

On your way to another life
I have brushed you with prayer
That may yet seep into unexpected places
And leave traces of God
Where there was none before
Glimpses of silver rain
across the womb of the March night
Seeds of expectation
Yielding fields of hope
and a harvest
to come

Big city, bright lights
Empty carriage
Time in reverse
Seafront palisaded bridge lights
Drifting into the terminus
with a glide of completion.
One journey ends
Another begins

The car won’t start

It might as well be a horse and cart
I’m stuck in limbo
The car won’t start

It’s all in good order – except for one part
I’m motion-less
The car won’t start

The heroes in yellow, they’re on their way
The AA are coming … sometime today
I daresay there’ll be a sharp intake of breath
I need a mechanical miracle: life brought from death

It might as well be a horse and cart
I’m stuck in limbo
The car won’t start

Oh for the days when a prod with a stick
Would make my Fiat’s motor tick
It sounded like a hairdryer on wheels
But it got me there all right.

There’s a lot to be said for a horse and cart.

The Tweets of Brandon Cummerbund

Cummerbundery – or the first month’s witterings from CummerbundEsq

Good morrow gentlemen and ladies, it is my delight to join you in this brave

Brandon Cummerbund: sage, gargler, wit and gastronome

odyssey. I shall be furnishing you with Cummerbundery daily …

Toast has its uses in hand to hand combat. Chum of mine: Mangrove van Flagbutterer – well meaning Dutch philanthropist. Breakfast: kedgeree

Just stalked some asparagus with me blunderbuss. Winged the blighter. The old rugger injury playing up. Mrs Cummerbund promises fig poultice

Bats in the cellar again. Sent Little Shitzu in. Chum of mine: Nodulous Quango-Chainsaw, mad as a tweed sandwich. Breakfast: anchovy mash

Shaver caught me beard this morning. Sacked the blighter, y’just can’t get the staff. Chum of mine: Leggy Tonguebuttress. Breakfast: kidneys

Gad, the shrapnel’s giving me gip. Could be the turbot from lunch, mind. Must grill the cook. Try Silly Me in the 2.30 at Kempton Park.

Locked in the scullery again by Mrs C. Dashed if I can work her out. Chum of mine: Tingling Parp, trombone for hire. Breakfast: poached egg

Discovered fishing rod and large brandy uneasy companions. Suffice to say no charges being pressed. Took mashie niblick to get slice repair

Practiced me gargling this morning. Improving. Chum of mine: toff conman Lord Quicksand Stuntly. Breakfast: porridge and glazed walnuts

Discovered butterscotch has little to do with a slab of Irish best and a bottle of Glenfiddich. Pity. Flutter: Arbroath 4 Forfar 5. Tea: cod

Cummerbund’s patent sleep recipe: two olives, a pickle, oats and a ding on the back of the head with a bedpan. Sheep counted: 97. Baah!

Soup of the day: Mulligatawney. Today’s limerick: There was a young fella called Bob. In the laundry: spats. Chum of mine: Wokwok Tahoomey

Fell asleep in stamp collection last night. Woke in small hours with Penny Red stuck to nose. Today’s poet: Milton. Breakfast: liver & bacon

Lost shirt on a horse today. Bally thing had hidden in the wardrobe. Considering buying tandem. Or a mongoose. Lucky cravat: paisley, silk

Constitutional amidst wheeling seagulls post-lunch. Kiteflyers on greensward have wheels attached. Most peculiar. Hat: straw. Shoes: brogues

Coal scuttle full of owls this morning. Must reprimand coal man. Fog outside, possible pea-souper. Today’s socks: Wolseley. Breakfast: bran

Jalope behaves itself as soon as stout mechanic looks at it. Typical. Can’t find cigar cutter. Must be his day off. Potato: Maris Piper

Aged aunt coming to stay. Attempts to book holiday in Folkestone have failed. Mongoose acquired, named Wilf. Cheese: Red Leicester. Tea: hot

Boots back from menders. Mrs C back from Boots. Valet gone to sea. Everything else tickety boo. Chum of mine: Abstemious Grout. Tea: saveloy

Practiced with Indian clubs in the conservatory. Hodgson says glazier can fix panes tomorrow. First rabbit of spring delicious in stew m’lud

The reviving qualities of cucumber dare not be underestimated. Chum of mine: Muggely Pooterstick, itinerant sweep. Breakfast: fruit compost

Quail in the attic or cower in the cellar? Hard choice. In for the laundry: garters. Chum of mine: seaside gangster Arividerci Clacton. Pah!

Need to get gardener in to trim the hollyhocks. Horse left compost in wrong place (still steaming). Lost fiver. Practiced tenor. Sneezed x 3

Taking aunt to Hampton Court. Plan to lose ‘er in maze. Need to stalk deer but have lost deerstalker. Coffee: Camp. Breakfast: bubble n sqwk

Hampton Court called to say have located aunt. Had to send chum with tranquiliser gun. Where can you buy decent tongs these days? Supper:egg

Mrs C birthday. Children constructing wobbly jelly for the entertainment later. Polished me blunderbuss. Fed the aunt. Breakfast: pancakes

Splendid day of sterling hymns, Far Eastern nourishment and seaside perambulation. Chum of mine: Glazeme Senseless. Cake of day: Battenberg

MPs’ expenses brouhaha. Have to get mine past Mrs C. Not easy. Aunt escapes via catflap, recaptured by paperboy. Breakfast: lobster fritters

Time waits for no man. The No 37 sometimes does. Aunt escapes in flat cap. Next door’s sheepdog brings her in. Dessert song: Eton trifles

O sole mio!! Except in Grimsby. Bats in the wardrobe this morning. Cricket bats. Linseed oil on order. Chum of mine: Moo Flip. Brekkie: Pate

Shooting stick went off in the pantry. Cook needed smelling salts. Played water polo at the baths. Damn mints hard to catch. Breakfast: bran

Dog escaped with leg of lamb. Aunt escaped with wobbly jelly. Mrs C wrote sonnet. Arividerci left contraband cornets. Late supper: chops

Discovered unusual crease in plus fours. Son says I’m losing my edge. Cheeky scamp. Off to polish cufflinks. Spread: gentlemen’s relish

Aunt sent back to Little Wotherington, guarded by gardener with toasting fork. Toaster back off holiday now using gardening fork. Tea: Egray

Terrible wind yesterday. Pedestrians walking sideways. Definitely better in than out. Marmalade of the day: Chivers Olde English. Muffins.

Fusty Montgomery borrowed putter. Twigs in the marmalade. Mrs C went shopping. Staff nervous. Eggs overcooked. Monkey of the day: gibbon.

I left my heart at Clapham Junction. It was in a small paper bag, along with a sausage roll. Kindly return it if you find it. Breakfast: egg

The Tweets of Brandon Cummerbund Pt 2

Pocket handkerchief crisis. Government step in. World leaders confer. Cook finds it in saucepan. Today’s biscuit: Bourbon. Breakfast: banana

Scrimshaw, beard crimper and toast buffer Brandon Cummerbund

Some days I mourn the decreasing use of tongs. Pulled a muscle attempting to fold the Telegraph. Cheese of the day: Gouda. Learning to yodel

Guildhall function last night. Bassoon playing gave me a headache. Or might have been the spritzers. Beverage: soda. Breakfast: parsley

And why should quoits should not be an Olympic sport? Mongoose snaffles chops. Mildew is as mildew does. Dog of the day: boxer. Pong: sewer

Today’s lesson: Tumble-drying is best done by a machine. Think the hip will recover. Chum of mine: Tolly Snitchplunger. Breakfast: quail.

A study of knots has much to commend it. If fell walking is a description rather than a pursuit, stick to taxis. Wind: SE. Breakfast: scones

Chum of mine: Ticktock Strangely – surrealist watch repairer. Never give a croissant an even break. Paint of the day: country meadow. Hoorah

Gad! Birthday imminent. Dinner party planned: pheasant, rosti, wobbly jelly, gin fizz. Assorted loons descending for carousing. Aunt banned.

Swift daquiri to mark the splendid day. Cook making an architrave of blancmange. Mrs C fussing over embroidery. Luncheon with poetical chums

Precipitation appears to be ongoing. Twanged nerve in right shoulder blade. Hot Cross Bun imminent. Breakfast: archipelago of swan, toast

A gentleman foregoes fish gutting in the presence of a lady. Chum of mine: Bishop Rev Dr Waltzing Mebuilder. Tea: cod. Brolly weather. Parp!

Hair oil goes missing. Cod liver oil sandwiches. Suspicious. Cook looks sanguine. Mongoose avoids my gaze. No breakfast. Gargling ticketyboo

Creaky knees. Twingey back. Cheesy buns. Dew on grass. Bicycle in shed. Mongoose in disgrace. Cook on a roll. Sausage roll. Brandon on banjo

Joyous Easter shennigans. Chocolatier excels himself. Cook beside herself. Mongoose reprieved. Boot boy sticky. Church: I should cocoa. Yip!

Malingering Monday. Leftovers to eat. Cook day off. Mongoose to have bath. Hatches battened down. Pig in aviary. Mrs C after it with broom.

Toaster back off holidays. Plan to get my spats ironed. Chum of mine: Voluminous Twig, freelance aborealist. Breakfast: kippers, plum torte

Overslept. Or underwoke. Must have been the tonic. Mrs C beating carpets. Cook beating egg. Mongoose beating next door’s cat. Happy days

Eeni, meeni, mynee, mo. Except on Thursdays, when a large spatchcock will suffice. I sense a marmalade on toast moment. Socks inside out.

Taking Mrs C to the theatre. Mongoose left in charge with strict orders to repel all callers, particularly mad aunts. Cravat: Old Yeoman.

Splendid night at theatre. Mongoose strangely quiet on our return. Something’s afoot. 1.30 at Fontwell: Jagger’s Mangle. Hat of day: trilby

Perambulation is the mother-in-law of bus strikes. Note it well. Chum of mine: Timbuktalulah Boomdeyay, society golddigger. Breakfast: toast

No milk. Cow sacked. Chicken worried. Cook beside herself. Good trick if you can do it. Chum of mine: Len ‘Thwack’ Bungeeclamp. Food: yams.

Ironmongery can delight the soul. A specially curved fork is wonder to behold. Chum of mine: somnambulent twitcher Snooze the Tickwarbler

Splendid day for a tootle round the local park on the wheeled steed. Mrs C heading to shops. Cook off to medicine cabinet. Breakfast: pawpaw

No shoes in house. Boot boy has sold them. Boot boy sacked. Mrs C recommends thick socks. Game of the day: hopscotch. Breakfast: spiced ham

Beware the toffee hammer. It may be small, but foolish is the man who underestimates it. Go placidly amidst the stuff and things. Tally-ho!

I used to think stubble-burning a kind of extreme sport version of shaving. Some days I mourn the decreasing use of inkwells. Jam: kumquat

C list pop star goes to the airport

Gotta go to Gatwick
I dunno which hat to pick
I don’t wanna look too slick
My public image is elastic
My face is mostly plastic
My attitude bombastic
If the paparazzi pop around me
I’ll look fantastic
Until I lose it trying to cruise it
Easy to excuse it, come too close
and I’ll bruise ya
Or sue ya

I wanna be recognised
But not categorised
I extemporise, I’m not pasteurised
I might sign your luggage
But I won’t engage in huggage
It’s not my style
My style is unique and casually
oblique
I wear trousers that creak
I buy two pairs a week
And my boots are so sleek
you can see my face in them

I’ve gotta keep travellin’
Although my life is unravellin’
You might hear me complainin’
That my star is wanin’
And I wish you’d scream at me
Instead of saying
‘Who did he used to be?’

Maybe I’ll go into TV
Find some show with reality
Where I can pretend to be
The me I have been manufactured
to be
I may be able to strike a pose
And hope that my humanity shows
but not my waistline

I could lend my name to a cause
If they’re clutchin’ at straws
‘Cos you can’t be a rebel without applause
It’s been so long since I did an encore
As only my mum is askin’ for more
Like the baggage carousel, I will keep
going round until
someone
claims
me

28 April 2009 (on a train from Gatwick Airport)

Trio of Sussex poets produce first collection

Trio of Sussex poets produce first collection

Three Worthing writers and poets have joined forces to produce their first poetry collection.

Three Sussex Poets, published by White Door Press, features Russ Bravo,

Our moody publicty shot on Worthing beach. From left: Russ, Steve and Martin

Steve Carroll and Martin Collins, with each contributing a range of poems from their repertoire.

With styles ranging from passionate, political and polemical via spiritual, thoughtful and emotionally charged, through to surreal, witty and traditional British nonsense, there is something for everyone.

“We’d been friends for a number of years, performing here and there in pubs, clubs and festivals, and so the idea of Three Sussex Poets was a natural progression for us,” explains Russ Bravo, who is a journalist working for publishers CPO, and also runs Matt’s Comedy Club, which runs regular nights at The Dome’s Function Suite.

Steve Carroll, who designed the book, runs his own graphic design business and is the author of the Riddler’s Fayre fantasy graphic novel series, while Martin Collins, a former photographer with the Worthing Herald, also works for CPO and has poems published in range of collections over the years.

The collection is officially launched on Saturday 23 May with a live performance event at Waterstone’s, Worthing at 2.30pm. Admission is free, everyone’s welcome and signed books will be available.

Three Sussex Poets is available, cost £5 from Waterstones, Worthing, UK or from this blog. Comment to order one – and leave your email address!

Russ and Steve will also be appearing at Roundabout Poetry at Worthing Library on Friday 5 June at 12 noon.

Workshop

‘I’d rather be a hammer
than a nail’
goes the song
Although many of us
may feel that we are
neither the hammer
nor the nail,
but the piece of wood
on the end of it all.

And some of us
have been nailed so much
we are now full of holes
and have forgotten
what we are meant
to be.

Splintered and battered
we career from one
moment to the next,
surprised by time
which rarely waits for us
and often arrives
all at once.

Yet it may be
that we are in fact
works of art
being shaped by
an imaginative sculptor
who knows what we are
to end up as
and is prepared to
chip
chisel
plane
hammer
and shave off
our roughness
and inhumanity
until we resemble
who we were
created to be.

The hammer
and the nail
play their part
but only the wood
can become the
finished article.

One day I will be whole
and no
longer
full
of
them

2 June 2009 (in the Sally Army cafe, London)

Attention span

Unfortunately

I have

an extremely

short

The shortest poem I ever wrote

The shortest poem I ever wrote

It had no rhyme

Nor reason

As you have

deduced

Lawyer Lee

Lee

was a lawyer

Who did

no wrong.

Allegedly.

Brandon Cummerbund’s Love Poems – No 7

Tremulous, she was
quite tremulous
But with a right hook
like a pheasant

I loved her dearly
Very very dearly
In fact, so dearly that I was left
destitute
But entranced

Her eyes were like
limpet pools
Pools – full of limpets
Her arms – there were two, as I recall,
One on each side,
Were milky white
White
Like milk

And her hair!
Her hair was
everywhere
I could have bathed in it
Except it was hair, and not water

To me, she shimmered
Particularly after the fifth glass
Her figure was full of curves
It was curved – in all the right places
In all the places, in fact
She undulated like …
she had always undulated.
I believe she learned it in the Far East.

When we first met, she elbowed me in the stomach
Immediately, I felt a connection
She took the wind out of my sails
Although I wasn’t in a boat at the time
And she left me all at sea
Clutching a bag
Of fish

Popocatépetl

Popocatépetl

This a sound poem which plays with the sound of words and revels in the responses and rhythms they stir up. At the end it features actions which only work in live performance, rather than on the printed page.

NB Popocatépetl is the second highest mountain in Mexico, and an active volcano

Popo cate petl
Poppa cata petal
Pot a cat a petal
Pot a cap a petal
Pot a cup a petal
Pot a cup a petrol
Pocahontas?
Peccadillo?
Pick a pocket or two?
No!!

Pop a pack a kettle
Pop a plaque a kettle
Pop a plaque – and pedal!
Pitter patter?
Paparazzi?
Pluck a pepperoni Nazi?
No!!!

Hippo pota ricotta pepper
Stock a flock a mocha chocca
Tic a tac a picker nicker
Not a battered tipple
Blot n scat n stipple
Pop!
A cat!
A petal …

22 July 2009

Owed to Les Paul 13.08.09

So
farewell Les Paul.
The genius
behind the electric guitar.
The guitarist’s guitarist
The axeman’s godfather
The ultimate
guitar hero.
The man who asked:
what happens
if I wire this up?
And plug this
in here?
And turn it up?
And what did happen
was the twang
and the riff
and the power chord
and the razor sharp
note cleaving the heavens
and ending up nailed
to your guts …
The sustain
and the gain
and the sweet pain
as the highly strung
plugged in
turned up
and engineered
a slice of soul-tugging
heart-twisting melody
That charmed the birds from the skies
Appliqued them together with gossamer harmony
Set them free to soar on dizzying runs
Before machine-gunning them in mid flight
with 12-bar heat-seeking tracer fire
That left a firework imprint on eternity.
Until one of the strings broke.

You never knew what you’d started, Les.
You really deserved a better name.

Take it to the bridge
in the key of genius.

13 August 2009
Upon the death of Les Paul, 94

The Tweets of Brandon Cummerbund, Pt 3

Wit, French polisher, amateur twinkler and whelk collector Brandon Cummerbund

Tested zeitgeist first thing. Needs more yeast. Mongoose band rehearsal sounds like poltergeist let loose in hardware shop. Lost a cufflink

Never allow hedgehogs free rein in your lilo factory. Sometimes only a mallet will do. These observations are not connected. Scones: cheesey

Sunday is always a good day for twinkling. Plan to linseed oil the cricket bat. Cook says she’s planning adventurous menu today. Oh dear.

Allow a badger to sharpen your kitchen knives, and a pigeon will soil your birdbath. Had to use cooking oil on cricket bat. Mustard: English

Chum of mine: Clicktwiglet von Drenchstartler – neurotic Teutonic inventor. Need to buy more blotting paper. Coffee of the day: mochalulu

Matron, someone’s forgotten to butter the parsnips. My beard is being trimmed by a squirrel with a mincer. [&%@!!*] No more evening naps …

If it’s possible to be non-plussed, why isn’t it possible to be plussed? A tiepin can be a mirror to a man’s soul. Vegetable of day: swede

Salmonella Fitzgerald – deadly, but enjoyable to listen to. What is the difference betwixt lingering and malingering? Fruit of the day: pear

Gad – humble apologetics for one’s lack of tweet yesterday. Sudden attack of sunshine, an ample breakfast and an escaped mongoose. Fine now.

Boot boy gainfully employed in oiling my laces. Tomorrow’s tip: lather up well before you shave. Mrs C learned the hard way. Tea: Darjeeling

Chum of mine: Nosferatu Bunting – Gothic local fete organiser. The art of conversation should be a subject taught for school examinations.

Hullabaloo in the Cummerbund household. Exploding blancmange, mongoose has snake flu, butler with lockjaw and no tea bags. Cordial: lemon.

Butler’s jaw unlocked, mongoose still hissing, blancmange cleared up (cook still shakey), shooting stick went off in pantry. Chin chin, eh?

Chum of mine: popular music yodeller Wopbopaloobamawopbamboo Smith. Mongoose now just slithering slightly. Biscuit of the day: Bourbon

Gargling incident with toothpowder. Mrs C covered in paint. Bootboy sent off in search of brown laces. Tea: lapsang souchong. Toast: French

Some days I mourn the decreasing use of … galoshes. A little anchovy paste spread on the nose will certainly excite comment. Wine: Shiraz

Every clock in the house has stopped. Clock winder sacked. Longer in bed though. Mongoose disorientated. Cook flapping. Breakfast: cereal

Pencil drumsticks are at their most effective if not sharpened to a point. Chum of mine: Hospitality Planks, affable joiner. Quaff: pale ale

Shaving incident involving cheese grater, tweezers and industrial sander. Cook has been warned, police informed and mongoose hosed down.

Taramasalata alert. Silly name for a cousin but there you go. Cook puts locks on cupboards. Mrs C in flurry. Not going to McDonalds again.

Take a bowl of meat stock and add a quart of strawberry jelly, two buttons and bookmark. Simmer then pour down drain. On no account, eat it.

Mr Spatchcock round to borrow bicycle pump. Cook was using it for souffle. Has now sent boot boy out to buy some bellows. Breakfast: muffin

draeb rof srezeewt etsap hsif seotamot – gah, never try copying shopping lists off blotting paper. Never works. Rather like gardener Botley

Celia Catflap popping in for spritzer. Mrs C flapping. Boot boy beating carpet. Cook beating egg. Mongoose beating up next door’s cat. Joy!

Next door returned spatula. Botley found in hedge, clutching trowel. Toast burned. Watched the cricket. Found whistle. Mrs C has hidden it.

Sorry – incommunicado. Shut in cellar after turnip incident. Hunky dory now. Boot boy accused of suet experiment. Investigators called in

Botley has dug up the petunias. Mrs C fuming. Cook fizzing after boot boy switched tooth powder for bicarb of soda. Hey ho. Breakfast: whelk

Huzzah! Back on British soil after three days of fromage, undercooked meat and no decent tea. Mrs C lightly tanned. Out of sardines. Tallyho

Weather set to steam bake us. Mrs C has parasol. Botley has red bald patch. Boot boy offering me espadrilles. Mongoose wearing hat. Scorcher

French cheese gone walkabout from larder. Last seen scaring the staff. Mongoose sent off to track. Mrs C has had a turn. Time for a snifter!

Mangle undergoing repairs. Boot scraper out of action – has hurt his knee. Own silly fault. Cook in brown study (Brown not using it). Voted.

Pilchards lost. Search party despatched. Butler sent off to source more satisfactory corduroy. Mangle fixed. Painted ukulele. Lunch: panono

Spatchcock has returned bicycle pump. It is bent. What’s he been doing with it? Shall quiz him later. Good gargle today. Breakfast: kumquat

Mrs C is plastering camomile on to deter sunstroke. Bootboy has discovered espadrilles. Butler in shock. Mongoose in larder. Cook in strop

Well great jumping Jehosophat! If it’s not a week since I last updated you chaps, I’m gaiter full of blancmange. 12th gin sling to blame …

Boot boy doing strange walk, cook more morose than usual, butler has gelled hair, Mrs C humming odd ditties. Gad! Party or wake? Kippers off

Vagabonds ahoy! The smelter has smelted the grate, and the milk’s gone orf. Linen recommended for clothing the limbs amidst summer sunshine

Can’t see wood for trees. Trees *are* wood, so damn silly saying. Promises to be a steamer today. Fizz on ice, batten down hatches, yip yip!

Happiness, my boy, is a pilchard on toast and feet in a mustard bath. Bootboy flagging down ice cream vendor. Mrs C just flagging. Geronimo!

Fig poultice, olive oil marinade, sprinkling of paprika and wrap in brown paper. Unusual skin treatment in this weather, but it works for BC

Hefty rain yesterday: boot boy wearing water wings, Botley gardening in sou’wester. Mongoose has goggles on. Ridiculous. Tiffin: muffin

Gardener, boot boy in huddle. Cook in muddle. Mrs C learning fiddle. Crossword a doddle. Eggs coddled. Mongoose waddled. Twaddle. Sozzled!

Laundry invaders: jodphurs and deerstalker. No-one rides or stalks, valet to investigate. Mongoose sulking as no post today. Poppycock say I

Impossible pudding last night: spoon stuck in it. Botley has planted succulents. Mongoose still sulking. Tin opener covered in aniseed. Why?

Hollyhocks wilting, mongoose moulting, Mrs C quilting, boot boy bolting breakfast. Stiff neck: linament required. Gargling well! Tickety-boo

Breakfast: grilled anchovy. Found cufflinks under diced kumquat. Read Psychics Nostalgia weekly: yesterday’s news tomorrow. For betting tips

Urchin calls, selling nosegays. Mrs C sends away with flea in ear. We have oranges and lots of open windows instead. Boot boy’s feet remain

Am being followed by a compulsive tweeter: 12 tweets at once is madness, woman, so stop it. Urchin to sue because of flea. Breakfast: sole.

Have not had gout. Would be glad not to get it. Have never had chitterlings either, but have had chipolatas. Highly satisfactory. Lunch: egg

Gad, sun is shining. Botley out of shed where rain has has him pinned for two days. He says. Familial gathering today around roasted meat.

Cricket bat covered in taramasalata. Boots have sugar mice in them. Plot thickens

Walrus in aspic. Boot boy in clover. Cook in hock. Botley in nettles. Mrs C in high dudgeon. Tweezers in vaseline. All possible band names.

Gah! Just escaped from coal bunker. Shut in by Mrs C after the tweezer incident. Plotted a novel and discovered anthracite. Invented yoghurt

Muffins ahoy! Crumpets at one o’clock! Scones beneath! Buns above! Crossants a droit! Pain chocolate a gauche! Baking day a-go-go! Huzzah!

V little sleep. Dreamed couldn’t wake up. Now not sure if conscious or not. Mrs C snoring like trooper, though I’ve never heard one. Piffle!

Back from jaunt to the coast. Quaffed local ale and sampled local mussels, hake, pasties and weekly paper. Old homestead looks dull. Pah!

#bestholidayever Mrs Pocklington’s Guest House for Gentlefolk, Broadstairs – splendid trouser press, rather ample foodstuffs and no Botley

Time for a constitutional after much industry this morning. Buffed up the leather patches on me jacket and straightened all the pipecleaners

Just added myself to the http://wefollow.com twitter directory under: #bloomsbury_london #spats #toastmasters #edwardian #entertainer #bear

Feel like toasted pilchard, and half as athletic. Time for glass of something medicinal and game of darts at boot boy. Mongoose quivers (6)

Bally rain. Leaky shoes. Damp plus fours. Soggy spats. Grumpy Mrs C. Sweaty kipper. Broken brolly. Sleeping gardener. Prod with hoe. Cheered

Spending this evening with the following: taramasalata, spirit level, plunge bath, flange, Illustrated London News, Mrs C. Jollity ahoy!

No shillyshallying today. Can’t be doing with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Piper calls the tune. Time waits for no man. Breakfast: kidneys

Mellifluous shennanigans in conservatory. Botley discovered with trowel, pot of honey, chamber maid. Evidence being gathered. Lunch: bagel

Unsavoury incident with quiche. Cook delivered it, Mrs C had taste – sweet not savoury, sent it back. Thumps and clangs. It’s never dull.